


You're Late

by Unforth



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, By Which I Mean Jaskier, Do Not Fuck with Geralt's Things, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, More Hurt Than Comfort, Victim Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Geralt hates the fucking xenovox that Jaskier got, and the constant jokes and interruptions that are the only purpose for which Jaskier ever uses it. He should get rid of it, but can't quite bring himself to, so instead he shoves it under his mattress and hopes he doesn't get yet another inane midnight question.But of course, it still fucking goes off.Cause Jaskier just can't help himself.Except...something is wrong...Geraltseriously hates the fucking xenovox...until the one time Jaskier needs him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 794





	You're Late

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omgbubblesomg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/gifts).



> Yes, another new fandom.
> 
> I wasn't actually planning to write for this one, seriously. I'm not that hooked, and I've only seen 6 episodes so far because this show falls into a category of "utterly impossible to watch while my kids are in the house, even if they're asleep, cause god fucking forbid they wake up and see it..." I'm not even 100% that I actually ship Geralt/Jaskier in any serious capacity...like they're fun to imagine together, Jaskier is such a goddamn smart ass and it's amazing, but...like, I think I could take it or leave it?
> 
> ...but when I'm stressed, I write whump (see also my Dean whump piece, Coping Mechanisms, that I wrote right after the 2016 election) and I'm very stressed, and sleeping very badly. Coronavirus is just starting to hit locally for us (two cases over the weekend about 30 miles away, first official case in the city where my wife works today...). My wife is severely immunocompromised as part of her Crohn's Disease treatment, and my mother (who is visiting and can't go home to New York City, where things are worse) is 75, has chronic pain and other health issues and a history of upper respiratory issues...I'm trying not to freak out, but, well, I just whumped the ever loving fuck out of Jaskier, so obviously I'm stressed. (I'm not sleeping well, I think is the real problem, but it's a cycle, I don't sleep well, so I get anxious, so I don't sleep well, so I get more anxious...).
> 
> So anyway.
> 
> My friend Bubbles and I started quipping about how Jaskier would abuse a xenovox if he got one for Geralt, and then I realized how dark it could go, and since I feel shitty, this happened.
> 
> This is hard non-con, with Jaskier as the victim and Geralt largely helpless to prevent it. I made up place names cause I just don't know the verse very well. I didn't really edit it, and I promise there is some comfort for the hurt - not as much as ya'll readers will deserve, but it ends vaguely okay, and with the promise of things growing more okay over time.
> 
> I'd say, "I hope you enjoy," but that feels...not right. But it's helping me cope.
> 
> And I hope it helps you cope, too. Hugs, everyone, these are dark times.

“Mrmph blarmph gre…”

Stuffing a pillow over his head, Geralt rolls over and tries to drown out Jaskier’s muffled voice. The bard had wanted the damn xenovox, and Geralt is a fricken sucker for anything that will make Jaskier smile, but fuck if he doesn’t hate the thing.

“...night farump wawa…”

The infuriating uses Jaskier had concocted for the xenovox far outweigh the value of the handful of actually relevant functions, and this night, as on so many others, Geralt wonders why he hasn’t chucked it in a lake yet.

“...mmrph gramph lawumpt alone…”

_ Wait...that doesn’t sound like Jaskier... _

Frowning, Geralt rouses himself, gets out of bed, and reaches beneath the thin mattress. He’d put the xenovox between the bed frame and the bedding in the hopes of drowning out any mid-of-night calls - Jaskier should have known he’d do that, if Jaskier was going to keep using it to message Geralt at 2 AM inquiring if Geralt preferred blonds or brunettes ( _ I prefer you, you idiot _ ), or wondering if Geralt knew how to fight a plathagon, whatever the fuck that was, or--

“Not at all, I actually prefer my night walks solo.” A background noise, like static, washes out Jaskier’s voice, makes him sound distant, and fear teases at Geralt’s heart and knots his stomach. Even with his tone deadened, there’s an unmistakable edge in Jaskier’s chipper, light-hearted voice, one that Geralt recognizes only from long exposure. 

“That I can’t believe,” chuckles a husky, unfamiliar voice. 

Panic.

“Pretty boy like you?” Cruelty twists a second unfamiliar voice. “What, you broke? Did your whore throw you out after you refused to pay?”

Jaskier is  _ terrified _ .

“Perish the thought,” Jaskier laughs dismissively. “Me,  _ pay  _ for sex? Have you  _ seen  _ me?”

“Yeah...yeah, we’ve been taking nice, long,  _ hard  _ looks since you left Falbjorn,” says a  _ third _ stranger. Geralt can hear his sneer, and the stranger’s innuendos tighten his throat like a fist clutching his neck.

“Now, now, none of that!” Jaskier’s voice cracks. “No - stop!”

Geralt’s blood goes cold.

“No, stop,” mimicked a  _ fourth _ voice.

He’s moving before he can put words to his intended actions. He’s in his small clothes - at least he’s not naked, not that that would have given him pause, but it tends to make social interactions awkward. Geralt doesn’t expect needing to do much in the way of social interaction to accomplish his goal, anyway. Falbjorn is maybe thirty miles away, if he’s recalling his local geography correctly; he doesn’t need directions and doesn’t need help from the useless townspeople around him. And once he finds Jaskier, his sword will do all the  _ talking _ .

“Look, you can still get out of this,” says Jaskier with an air of reasonableness. “I’m  _ much  _ more dangerous than you realize - ow! - Just go  _ east _ \- gah - right back down  _ the Lalbearn Forest Road _ , the way you came, toward  _ Falbjorn _ ...you might still survive the night.” Every pause, every interruption, is punctuated by dull  _ whumps _ and  _ thuds _ , leaving Geralt’s imagination to fill in the blanks as he stomps on his boots, grabbing his sword belt with one hand and the xenovox in the other.

“Awww, he thinks he’s  _ dangerous _ .”

_ And even in such danger, he’s thinking clearly, giving me directions, helping me help him... _

“Whatcha gonna do, puppy? Give my prick a little nip?”

However long it takes to find Jaskier, Geralt is  _ positive _ he’s not going to hear a  _ single damn good thing _ out of that fucking xenovox, but he doesn’t dare leave it.

“Not nearly as dangerous as--” Jaskier cuts off with a scream. The sounds of fists and boots striking flesh are loud, even with that persistent background static.

Leaving all his other belongings to the surely tender, caring attentions of the asshole of an innkeeper in charge of his accommodations, Geralt  _ bolts _ .

“...last chance to spare me…” mumbles Jaskier.

The streets of Reafealrn are mercifully deserted so late. 

“We ain’t sparing  _ nothing _ , beautiful,” leers someone...the second speaker, Geralt thinks, daring to hope maybe there are only four attacking Jaskier.

_ Only _ four.

Gods above and below, fecking  _ hell _ , Jaskier may finally have found more trouble than Geralt can get him out of.

“Come on, show daddy some skin.”

A few drunks eye Geralt as he sprints by, shouts and the barks of mangy dogs following him, but he ignores them. 

Jaskier groans, gags - seriously, has Geralt been around so long that he recognizes the distinct sound of someone spitting out a tooth? (yes, yes he has) - and manages a wet chortle. “...at least buy a girl a drink…”

Geralt only has ears for the xenovox, only has attention to spare for the pounding of his legs carrying him out the east gate of the city and down the uneven, pitch-dark road.

The sound of clothing tearing rips through the pre-dawn silence, rips through Geralt’s heart.

“...don’t... _ don’t _ …” Jaskier is interrupted by more blows, more wet, bloody sounds like wounds shredding the peace of the forest.

“Faster,” Geralt mutters, “I have to go faster.” And he pushes himself,  _ fuck _ how he pushes himself.

“Hey, me first!” snaps one attackers...one of the walking corpses, really, because however this night goes, whatever happens to Jaskier, Geralt’s heard four voices, engraved them on his fucking pathetic, shattered, non-existent excuse for a soul, and he  _ will _ find them, and he will  _ end them _ .

_ Faster. _

“Fuck that, this was my idea - so this is my ass.”

_ Faster. _

There’s no way, absolutely  _ no way _ , he can get to Jaskier quickly enough.

_ Faster. _

“Be my guest - argue over me…” Even now Jaskier is trying to laugh, trying to crack a joke - someone in the past dismally failed him, to have left him with only a jester’s mask to protect himself in such dire circumstances.

_ Faster. _

_ That “someone” is  _ me.  _ I failed him dismally. Knowing he’s like a fricken walking talking “punch me” sign, I still don’t keep him by my side, still don’t keep him safe. I let him wander around and sing his douchey songs and run his smart mouth and never even taught him where to hide a knife so he could stab any fucker who got too handsy. _

_ Faster _ .

“...son of a bi-- pin his hands!” Of course, Jaskier  _ does  _ have a knife or five stashed about his person… “Search him!” ...but there’s no way he could effectively defend against so many, especially when they took him at a disadvantage, which they definitely seemed to have.

_ Faster. _

No dagger is enough to protect him, not now, not against four, in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night. 

_ Must. Go. Faster. _

“Ooo, boy, you’re gonna pay for that. I’m gonna make you  _ bleed _ .”

_ Fucking  _ legs _ , M.O.V.E. _

“Already have…” Jaskier grumbles.

_ At least he had the xenovox. At least he could use it to tell me. Imagine if I’d not had his fucking toy of a communicator...I might have never known until it was too late… _

“Spread his legs.”

_ It’s already too late.  _

“Last chance,” Jaskier’s voice quavers, matching the stuttering, pounding, uneven patter of Geralt’s racing heartbeat.

_ Far, far too late. _

“Gag him.”

_ I’m so sorry, Jaskier. _

In a lifetime - multiple fucking lifetimes, it feels like - of traveling and fighting, of violence and war, of enemies and friends felled in numbers beyond recounting - Geralt has never heard  _ anything _ more awful than the choked sob Jaskier leaks as one of his attackers gives a replete sigh and groans, “oh yeah, that’s the sweet spot, right there…”

The black night washes red.

“Hey, what’s that?”

The distance passes under Geralt’s pumping legs, his muscles screaming agony and protest that he acknowledges and summarily ignores. 

“Hey, isn’t that one of those...vox...thingies?”

The pain of exertion is a problem for future-him.

“Oh, little bitch has some spunk after all...first the knife...did you scream for help, slut? Think someone gives enough of a shit about this pert ass--” --the slap of a hand on bare skin-- “--that they’d bother riding to  _ your _ rescue?”

_ I’m on the Lalbearn forest road now...did he know he was in danger? Was he trying to find me? And I’ve been traveling north and west...away from him...farther every day...fuck. _

“Well, I’ve got news for you--”

The signal cuts out in a fractured, shattered  _ crunch _ .

Enraged, Geralt throws aside the useless xenovox receiver, shouts his fury and frustration and  _ fucking uselessness  _ to the forest canopy, and  _ runs _ .

Geralt isn’t sure which was worse - hearing everything and knowing what horrors befell Jaskier that Geralt couldn't prevent, or hearing nothing, and knowing  _ nothing _ , and being left to assume the worst.

Geralt is keenly aware of what "the worst," might entail - agonizingly aware of what abominations humanity was capable of.

He should have stolen a fucking horse.

No - with the distance he has to cover, no random nag snitched from the stables would be able to move faster than he. 

All non-essential things are a distraction he can’t afford.

And the only essential thing is  _ Jaskier _ , safe and sound and laughing and being an epic pain in the ass - in every sense - by Geralt’s side.

_ Will I ever even get to see him again? _

Every grim thought, every niggling fear, spurs Geralt to push himself harder, longer, farther. The miles and hours blur, fade into a meaningless background of broken blisters and straining muscles and heaving lungs. Light pearls the horizon, dissipating to grey amongst the thick, leaf-laden tree branches as dawn breaks. The birds sing joyfully until his plodding, gasping presence frightens them into flight. He’s slowed as the hours have worn away, he knows he has, but no amount of self-castigation can force more exertion from his legs. He’s been to Falbjorn before, if only once or twice, and he strains through the morning pall for any landmark, any sign of how far he’s gone - how close he is. The road tends due east, toward the sunrise, but even that herald of new beginnings can’t stir much hope in Geralt’s breast.

Four  _ monsters _ have had Jaskier for  _ hours _ .

_ If there were only four… _

_...if only it  _ had _ been monsters...creatures, I understand. People? Absolute, heartless, useless  _ fuckers _. _

The rush of water sounds nearby, so loudly that Geralt can hear it over his harsh inhales. There’s something familiar about the sound, something that teases at his awareness as he strides on, and on, something…

_...Jaskier, joking, his voice deadened by a sound like static… _

_...static, like flowing water… _

For the first time since he left the inn, Geralt stops. His chest heaves. His legs burn. He’s traded his sword from hand to hand throughout his run, but it’s usually negligible, familiar weight is heavy, his arms leaden. Straining to silence his fatigued body, Geralt closes his eyes, turns a slow circle, and listens.

Water cascades.

Birds sing.

Rocks grate on rocks.

Leaves sift to the ground.

And a faint, harsh, cruel laugh whispers from the near distance.

Geralt turns on a heel, letting the sound draw him like a spell. There’s no sign of disruption on the main road, but a small footpath leads deeper into the woods - one of dozens like it along the highway, leading to good campsites used by itinerants and travelers. 

_ Expect the worst. _

Drawing his sword, Geralt storms the path.

_ Do not hope. _

It’s surprisingly long and windy, and at every step the sounds of violence grow louder - the painfully familiar voices of the four brutes, and rough clatters and sickening squelches...and nothing else.

_ He’s dead, and it’s better if he’s dead, a mercy considering what he must surely have gone through. _

“--you, get off him, I want another turn!”

_ But I don’t want him to be dead. _

Geralt breaks through the last screen of branches into a wide, sunny clearing. Three burly men, clothed in cheap leather armor, lounge around, startled from whatever they were doing by his arrival. 

_ I want him to be… _

The fourth stands over the still form on the ground, balls deep in a person who is unmistakably Jaskier though his face is pressed to the dirt. Jaskier’s usually immaculate hair is filthy, matted to his head, made pale brown by soil. His clothing is a tattered mess, bruised and gouged flesh showing through every tear. The ground beneath him is churned and sodden, dirt made to mud by blood. 

_ I  _ need  _ him to be-- _

“The  _ fuck _ ?” squawks one of the men, leaping to his feet.

Jaskier stirs.

_ He’s alive _ . 

Two long strides take Geralt to the center of the clearing, and his sword is through the chest of the  _ fucking rapist _ before the man can even rise. His other hand reaches out, seizes the corpse by the neck, and throws it aside.

_ Thank fuck _ .

The body tumbles into a thicket, snapping branches as it rolls down a ravine toward the sound of the flowing water.

“You’re late,” mumbles Jaskier.

Geralt turns, frigid rage quelling his exhaustion and granting strength to his spent limbs.

“It’s the Witcher!”

“Run!”

“I warned you…” Jaskier’s quip - that Jaskier is still  _ capable _ of quipping - is like the first glimmer of light after an eon in an abyss.

“I’ll be right back,” rumbles Geralt. “Just have to finish murdering the garbage.” He’s moving before he’s done speaking, his sword cleaving through the shoulder of the nearest bandit, a single smooth motion that separates torso from leg. The man manages a moment of wide-eyed shock, looking at his own crotch before blood gurgles from his mouth and his eyes go blank. 

“...no hurry on my account…” Jaskier sounds like he’s fading - ... _if he fucking dies_ now... \- and Geralt rounds on the remaining bandits. Stunned horror freezes them in place for precious seconds; Geralt spits the nearer one through the back as he turns to flee. The fucker is thick, though, and Geralt’s sword catches on bone.

“...damn it...” Geralt mutters, trying to pry the blade free. He twists it left, right, the man twitching and his weak hands fumbling at the point sticking out of his chest 

Annoying, time-wasting  _ bullshit _ . 

Geralt’s lost enough time already.

He lifts a leg and kicks the body free.

Three down, one to go...but the last bandit is out of sight down the path.

“I  _ will _ be right back,” Geralt swears, shooting a look over his shoulder toward Jaskier, who manages a thumbs-up and a half-smile that looks like death, considering his face is covered in blood and he has a black eye, a fat lip, and a gap between his front teeth.

The bandit’s scrambling is fast, but Geralt is death on two legs, and though his pace is a walk he’s swift, sure, and implacable. Roots and rocks stick out from the well-trodden soil, and every clatter and crack speaks to the man tripping in his haste. Within moments he’s in sight, his terror making him clumsy, his head twisting to look behind himself more often than his gaze looks forward.

Geralt meets his eyes.

Geralt smiles and hefts his blood-coated sword.

With a strangled cry, the man tries to run but his feet betray him; he stumbles, he falls, he twists around with his hands raised in useless defense.

“Spare me, Witcher!” Tears coat his cheeks, and his voice is loud, but both are the merest buzz of irritation compared to the evidence of violence all about his person - blood on his knuckles, scuffs on his armor, come around the crotch of his pants. “I didn’t know - I’m sorry! I--”

“No one hurts my..."  _ My friend? My bard? My lover? What even is Jaskier to me?  _ "No one hurts  _ mine _ ."

_ Jaskier is everything to me _ .

“Please, n--” 

_ He’s  _ everything _. _

The scream as Geralt hacks off the man’s arm is  _ extremely _ gratifying.

“No, no - stop!”

_ No, stop _ , Jaskier’s earlier plea, and the mocking response it received - in that same voice, still recognizable despite the terror straining it - echo through Geralt’s head.

“I’ll give you a chance…”

With a casual swing of the sword, he takes a leg off at the knee. The man screams again, blood spurting from his wounds, tears streaming down his face. He tries to speak again, but spit coats his lips, his chin, froth tinged pink by blood bitten free from his tongue.

“...the same chance of escape you gave Jaskier.”

Geralt hacks off the man’s other foot.

One limb out of four should be more than enough for him to be going on with.

With a satisfied smile, Geralt leans down, uses the cloth on the man’s dismembered leg to clean the blood off his weapon, and sheathes it as he walks back to Jaskier. The few steps give him time to finally put on his sword belt - in all these hours he’d not paused even long enough for that; the blade would have been in his way while running anyway. It’s mere steps to go back, though the ground cover of shrubs and low branches effectively block the view. Jaskier is laying still, face once more pressed to the forest floor, hands bunched in bloody, filthy fists, a picture of hopelessness and pain that tempts Geralt to go back and put the last bandit out of his misery. He wants to make someone hurt as much as Jaskier hurts - as much as seeing Jaskier hurt, makes Geralt hurt. A branch cracks underfoot as he enters the clearing and Jaskier jerks his head up, terror in his wide eyes and gaping mouth for just a moment before he recognizes Geralt; he manages another weak smile but tears streak his cheeks as he relaxes back against the ground, rolling his head to keep gaze on Geralt.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says as he drops to a squat at Jaskier’s side.

Jaskier side-eyes him and opens his mouth to speak. His half-smirk suggests he’s got a smart retort to share, but a thick trail of blood and spittle leaks free before any words come; grimacing, he closes his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know you are,” he whispers.

“Can you stand?” asks Geralt gently.

Jaskier snorts a laugh. “Think I’d be lying here, if I could?”

“On your back, bard. Now.”

“Damn it, Witcher, give a man an hour or two to recover - we don’t all have mutant refractory periods.” Jaskier tries to play it as a joke - at least, Geralt thinks that’s why he’s attempting to smile - but his appearance is so haggard, his pain so obvious, his eyes so tight, his tone so agonized, that Geralt thinks his heart might break.

He wasn’t even sure he  _ had  _ a heart, until now.

Reaching out, with soft nudges and powerful tugs, Geralt helps Jaskier roll over. Rage boils in his chest at every pained hiss, every excruciating whimper, every twitch of abused flesh. Only when he sees Jaskier lying with a semblance of comfort does Geralt ease an arm beneath his back, scoop another arm under his knees, and lift him.

Jaskier is fucking  _ heavy _ .

“You found me.”

Jaskier is worth every ache and pain, every strained muscle and sleepless night, that Geralt has and may yet suffer on his behalf.

“Just followed your directions.”

An agonizingly lifted arm drapes over Geralt’s shoulder, Jaskier’s other arm curls around his waist, and Geralt suspects the weak hug that follows is the most powerful Jaskier is capable of. 

“Knew you were smarter than you looked.”

_ As long as he’s being a smart ass, I can believe he’ll be all right. As long as he’s alive... _

“I’m taking you home,” Geralt says, starting down the path.

“Where’s home?” mumbles Jaskier, face pressed hard to Geralt’s chest. Blood soaks, hot, through the Geralt’s worn, sweat-drenched small-clothes.

“With me,” he says firmly. Jaskier shudders, his whimpers and repressed sobs like barbs embedded in Geralt’s chest. “Your home is  _ with me _ .” Jaskier curls in closer to him, nodding, smearing tears against Geralt’s shoulder; Geralt steps over the bleeding bandit as blocking the trail as the fucker tries to drag himself, one-armed, toward the main road.

“Don’t leave me…” the man croaks, straining to lift himself up from the ground.

Jaskier casually kicks him in the head as they go by.

“I did warn him,” says Jaskier.

Geralt’s tempted to cut his other arm off...but that would mean putting Jaskier down.

“Yes, you did.”

And he’s never,  _ never _ putting Jaskier down again.

“I knew you’d come.”

_ If I’d done as I ought, this would never have happened to you. _

“I’ll always come when you call,” Geralt says. It feels like a vow, and he means it as one. Always. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

_ It’s going to take a long time before you heal... _

“Yes, Witcher,” Jaskier mumbles. “...yes... _ Geralt _ ...I like the sound of that.”

_...and I swear, I will be there every step of the way for you, my...my... _

“...my Jaskier.”

_...my love. _


End file.
